An Ant

One day, an ant spoke

to me.

It asked if I could stand

on the West side

to block out the sun.

I did, and it found

its hill.

An Analogy

Fragile,
but I put on the facade of independence, strength, and all the layers of an I'm-my-own-person armor. I need that protection, because if I were to be truly exposed, I would be nothing but a game of Jenga, allowing people to pull out parts of me and manipulating them.
I would be comprised of small blocks of wood, no bigger than a finger.
One by one, they would lie flat on the table. And they'd start to stack by threes, until eventually, they're all used up. That's when the game will begin. A finger would find a loose piece, and pull it out.
I would become an unstable, disarray of random sticks; holes everywhere. I know that one little nudge or shake is all that it would take.

I sway from side to side, not knowing the danger. At the same time, I come to that full acceptance of exposing myself. I choose to. I realize, it is not the people around me that pulls out those pieces.

They have always been missing.

And I come to that place of recognition, and find that God is slowly filling in those holes of instability. He's carefully sliding those missing pieces back in, and making sure they never come out.
He starts at the foundation.
It is for His glory.

"But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." -2 Corinthians 12:9

i wish there was a "select all" option, so i could press "delete", to swipe away all that was in my conscious and the subconscious, and perhaps construct a narrative, rather than an essay that i've created of my life. must it always be logic over faith, or vice versa? the times that these two overlap are ones that i obsess over and scrutinize, to perhaps find some sort of secret ingredient in knowing God's will. at the same time, i know that i've been trying to skip the growth. and as i try harder and harder to conceptualize God, to objectify him, to understand and break down the elements to create a shape to jam him into, i think, maybe i can truly grasp the essence of him. but the more i hold onto the reason and logic, i realize people and places become less and less defined. the more God is subjectified, the more i see him clearly. he takes the shape of whatever hole i find, all the blocks and ends where i can't find reason to back up the thesis that i constructed in the beginning. in the end tho, i realize he's gone back and changed it completely. points 1,2,and 3 of my paper have no evidence to rely on, and they stand there like general statements.
point 1. i'm here to pursue my goals
point 2. you'll never know, so it's better to follow your gut.
point 3. in the end, if you made a difference then it was worth it.
but i look back at these points and realize they have not been logical at all, and maybe faith has far more reason than the tangible things. there's no sub-points to convince the reader. there are no examples to illustrate them, and as much as i try to construct an outline of exactly where and how these points may become active, it is just a repetition of lies.
with every new line, i try to back up my original statement of "finding myself", but somehow end up forming questions and vague generalizations that is all-encompassing, so i could never be wrong. but after hours and hours of attempts, i print out a blank page. and before i entertain the thought that all the work was in vain, i make out words on the page that spells out: "start".
now i know there was an option of "select all" and "delete".
this time, i'll let God write. and it won't be an essay, it'll be a love letter.
to me.

Spring

Today, we notice the snow melted away
When it had been disappearing then
But we see it now as puddles of water, cut
From the small ice mounds that become
Signs of change that somehow binds
Our insides with our fleshy hours
Where one man wears just one layer
And another, a thick blanket of sand,
That we should all consider wearing a hat
Because today, we noticed the snow melted away
Of which we trust, and carry doves.

The Skylark

Beyond the horizon
Is a bird
hiding
waiting
Until the day
A new Sun
is birthed
Into the sky
Like an unveiled
Diamond
In the middle
Of a pool of blue
And placed there
like a thread
woven in.
The bird
will fly away from
its aching perch
to never look back
or return again.

Proverb

It's better to
get it out of your
system
when you are
young,
they said.
And then
it became
their lifestyle.

Memento

Wayward lies keep us from sleep at night to
explain the truth in the shape of a fog that
can drive us into pools of distant images
always playing backwards rapidly like a
naked memory stacked upon memories to
numb the physical experiences as science, not as
emblems of things much deeper, which
varies on the mystery of intention in all the crevices of
emotions that bounce off people's faces and
reverberate back to shoot us in the chest but
feels like a warm embrace that enraptures every
organ like an incurable disease and forces us to
remember the span between beginning and end to
gravitate towards the pull of forming new
evidence of more sunshine than clouds
together more elevated and molded than we began.

Roses are Red

He handed me a yellow rose
on February 14th
that had dull green leaves
hanging by its sides
scorched by time, browned by the sun.
Yet its head was vibrant as light,
each layer peeled back perfectly
into position to form
a soft warning,
flashing a motive in color
of the surface
with depth.

He left the thorns there
jutting out like ledges
to hold onto,
formed precisely for a hands grasp,
for climbing some mountain
that was never there.

So I grabbed hold of them
all at once
with one swift motion
my hands tightened
until the skin of my palm
turned white
and the silence allowed
the welcoming of pain
as blood trickled down
and stained
the rose
red.

Teetering

There's a pungent scent
That comes from Time
Which can be captured
In a jar with pickled objects
Like "what" and "why"
Somehow put there
And molded by
A dream carried out
In a space where
Black & White
Are not separate beings
And yet is
Thrown together
In a place of
Preservation
To escape some sort
Of end
And be able to
Flip back
To that first aroma
Inhaled deeply
Into that jar
Which we call
the mind.

Sometimes

I lie awake at night
Just to listen to the
Screaming silence

I shove my eyes closed
Just to make things
Disappear

I swim through snapshots
Just to hide from
Reality

But the sun
Will slide into position
Directed by time.

And when I flash
My eyes awake
I listen to the quiet.

I see everything
That is there,
Illuminated.

I go about what
The day holds,
With clear skies.

Context

While I was looking through my journal that my dad bought me 7 years ago for my birthday, I came across some free writing I did when I was 13.
It's funny because when I read it now, I feel like I'm rediscovering an old friend that I've lost touch with over the years. It's like when you know you've been really close with them at one point, but it was so long ago that meeting them again is awkward, but comforting at the same time. All these old memories come back, and you're suddenly in grade school again: the days when homework was your biggest concern. It was during that weird transition from collecting stickers to having crushes on boys, all the while trying to understand the racial and religious background I carried around subconsciously.
And yet, somehow I was able to produce something that was beyond my understanding of what I was even trying to say. What it means to me now was something entirely different back then.

Where will I go when the tide falls in...when the sky falls in...
What will be left when the earthquake hits...and the land falls away...
What will I stand on...What will I do...
As life carries me on like a nameless shadow
Slashing cold wind upon my face
I do not dare utter the word that conquers me, that overcomes me.
Looking only around me, the walls cave in and no light shines through
All but a spec, and a hand reaching, searching for me.
Will I choose to trust...to take the hand, or
Will I stay here and remain in the mud of my despair...
A voice calls out to me, one calling his child,
A label, an identity that I cannot claim...
And so I sit, and stare and struggle to lift
My hand that weighs me down, with scarlet rain...
Instead of me reaching out...
It's Him who picks me up.

Dear Friend,

I suggest a different approach, if you care to listen; if you care to pay attention for a while. Let's say, theoretically, you are stuck somewhere in-between a mountain and a valley.
The space you're standing in, it's going to collapse at any moment. Better yet, it will explode. Not just maybe, but will.
You brace yourself for the coming disaster, because you know too well how this story ends. You'll go flying up the mountain, crumble down the valley, and somehow you'll wiggle your way into that tiny island jammed right in the middle. But, it's nowhere; it's nothing.
You're treading in air, you're flapping wings through mud, and always, always... stuck.
Perhaps up or down are not the directions to look. For once, look straight ahead. Funny though, how you know it's right in front of you; all around you. With one glance, in an instant you will lunge into a sea and float where the sky meets the water. The sky will be dark, but it stretches to no end, lit with mysteries.
You will have a sudden urge to swim into the sea, venturing deeper and deeper. It will be dark, but you will know there are treasures at the bottom, and as you go, somehow, it gets easier to breathe. As soon as you find the end, you skyrocket out of the water, into the unknown unending space that meets the sea.
Forever and ever, you'll straddle comets, glide through stars, and always, always...
fly.

Faith

He walked out of the three-story building.
Red bricks cemented together.
Small, gray front and back door.
Rectangular front, side and back.
No windows anywhere.
It was hard to notice when or how it was made.
But he noticed.
He realized that the bricks were crumbling.
If he applied pressure to one of the bricks with his hand, it would fall apart
like wood that was sitting in a furnace for hours.
As soon as you touched it, it would collapse into the air like mist.
He noticed, realized, acknowledged, and accepted it.
And yet, he walked on.
He headed for the park for a walk.
He passed by dogs walking their owners, kids dragging their parents, and couples pretending to be in love.
It was a normal day.
The sun was shining, and the sky was as blue as the color of his lips, and the clouds as white as his skin.
But he brushed it all off, and thought:
It was a good day.
He kept walking, and treaded across the tanning grass.
He stepped on a couple of empty anthills and insect skeletons.
He stopped when he came across a dead robin, lying there amidst the relentless weeds and pesty flies.
Next to it, lay a dismembered nest, flipped over, sprawled underneath one of the robin's wings that was spread out to blanket it.
He slowly lowered himself to his knees, eyes wide with broken emotions.
His hands were trembling, as he mechanically
reached out his hand to turn over the nest.
Like uncovering a body, he slowly and carefully lifted the wing.
He quickly flipped over the nest.
Underneath, he discovered broken pieces of eggshells, shattered, everywhere.
As if they had exploded, the pieces lay in-between the crevices of the nest.
But there were no signs of death, or remnants of the lives of these templates of design being cut off or cut short from entering the world; making their grand entrance.
That was their grand entrance.
Suddenly his vision was blurred, and one small insignificant tear rolled down his cheek and splashed the top of the robin's head.
He looked up, and saw a naked tree; uprooted and collapsed onto its side.
A statue, frozen in time, disrupted abruptly, and tipped over while leaving its roots paralyzed into the air.
Behind the victim, a tractor was sitting silently; its mouth ajar and yet still.
He sprung to his feet, and the blood rushed to his head.
His vision wasn't steady, but his motive was.
He walked swiftly and with too much intention, towards the ugly thing.
He climbed in, with a wild rage in his mind, turning the key.
He drove it down the path in the park, treading on a million dead bugs and abandoned anthills, past the kids misbehaving,
the untrained dogs, the unhappy couples, and down the street.
When he got to the three story building, he hesitated for one split second.
But that split second felt like hours upon hours of contemplation.
The last click went off, and he plummeted forward into the delicate, decaying construction until every piece of ash had floated down
to the ground on the pile of rubble.
He shed himself of this costume, and he stood up panting from his impulse.
He took a deep breath, and blew with all his might.
All these particles flew into the air, and started drifting into the gray sky, like balloons departing without prevention.
All that was left was the solid ground.
He spent the rest of his days rebuilding a mansion,
until it actually, finally,
became his home.

Avant-Garde

The crippled man limped
to his bed, the bench
that was broken in the middle.
From the front, it had a mouth
that beckoned him to rest
on top of its lower lip.
It had a black trash dispenser
for an eye, and its nose was missing.
And yet, it was his closest companion.
The crippled man was altered by
the layers of dirt crawling on his skin,
and unraveling noodles of thread
coming from the tears on his clothes
that simply fulfilled the purpose of
covering his body at night
when his temperature suppressed itself
down to a lower level.
He smiled as he laid down,
happy to be supported
by a friend.

That's What She Said

Do you ever look at your professor and think: Can a person be so brilliant and ridiculous at the same time?
That's my creative writing teacher. He's a strange cross between Santa Clause and a truck driver. You would think they are totally opposite things, but in reality they have a lot in common. I mean, if you think about it, both have big bellies, facial hair of some sort, and they deliver goods to people.
God, I hope he doesn't read this by some strange coincidence.
But his character... is hard to assess simply. If you sat in on one of our "classes" you would probably think he's a college student trapped in an almost-sixty-year-old body. He even has a rap name, Two-Four. Don't really know what that's supposed to mean, but he wants us to call him that.
That's not even the half of it.
He calls me Fred because I had a guinea pig named Fred and he thought it was funny that I thought it was funny that it died.
Topics that come up in class range from frat parties to horse races, fish to antisemitism, and Korean BBQ to lap dances. Yeah, crazy.
That's as far as I'll go with explaining the gist of how these poetry workshops go. But if I had the power to name the course, I'd probably call it "Chillin' with Madonick 400". It's that insightful and outrageous at the same time.
Now that I've shared a bit of how the class goes, you can read the poem I wrote. It was an assignment that my professor came up with on the spot. But I'm not sure if it was just for fun, or if he had a real purpose to it.
In any case, he told us to write a "that's what she said" poem. I thought wow, I don't even know where to start. I don't even think I accomplished it the way he intended it to be. It's not really funny at all, but it's something I guess. What I really learned from this assignment, regardless of whether he intended it or not, was that the title makes a world of a difference.

That's What She Said

His heart was hammering against his chest
as the redundant heart beat of his ring tone
screamed at him.
But it was inaudible against
the ticking bomb tucked inside the cavity
of his ribcage.
And yet the throbbing lights from his phone
were blinding, as he stared at the screen
where a name was causing
the eruption
from inside the nucleus that was forming
the clear, glass beads rolling off his brow,
just passing his eyes.
At that moment
he turned to rest his gaze on a girl who
made an incision between his shoulders,
who would not stop swimming
in his arteries.
Whom he purchased secretly, when
the owner of the flashing name
was becoming a thick mist
stretched too thin
across the expanse between his thoughts
and emotions, disappearing in his iris
until she became just another
human being.
The jolt of his conscience made him
pick up the line that bound his reality
to his desires of wanting to sever
the label
that was pulling him back from this
thief that was sitting next to him, waiting,
cutting deeper inside, at the same time
smiling gently.
He pressed the inevitable consequence,
and the voice from the other side was
containing more than boiling anger,
a refined bitterness
and blanketed with wishful thinking
and misguided trust, she said,
"Are you coming?"

Bliss

Tickled brains that explode

Into particles of cotton

Like floating feathers,

Flung into the air

To be disposed into a basin

Of cool, crisp fluid,

Dissolving like snow

On a burning spiral

Triggered by a petal

Of a rose, withering

Into a single hair

Tied to a robin's ankle,

Flashing red lights

Across the blue &

Over the reflections,

Streaming at all angles,

And molding into

A pair of eyes

Stretched open

To consume

Everything

At once.

Coffee

Grinding away at your words,
Their darkened tone
And potent scent
Give way to the underlying
Texture, the solid core.
The figures and contours
Touch the blade
Of your thoughts
To chop and smother
Each sound with release,
And a spray of invisible
Relief, to infect and devour
Every crevice of the room.
Placing these words in a filter
To trickle
Your intention,
Your ardor,
To create a heated, watered-down
Discussion as it builds upon
Chemicals of anticipation
And expectations
As these words are
Constricting each vein,
Till the rush
Of understanding hits,
And slowly, painfully
The flavor unravels,
The aftertaste, a swallow
Of bittersweet
Withdrawal.

Outside the Box

There's beauty in yearning & longing, and that ache is almost addicting. Perhaps that's why people venture outside their comforts into foreign lands, figuratively and literally. We often find ourselves pushing our limits, attaining that feeling of accomplishment or fulfillment in the new territory. We experience that thrill and the adrenaline rush lasts for a while, till we start thinking. These thoughts and memories come back to us, and we realize we've left a whole different world behind us: a world of comfort and familiarity. These are our dearest friends, and we long for more of them. The funny thing is, as soon as we step one foot back into that space again, we quickly grow tired of them. We suddenly feel the urge to break out again, and experience a new set of boundary-pushing elements. For those of us who don't relate to this at all, maybe we've been sitting in that place for too long as if a person drew out a two by two feet box on the concrete of a parking lot and told us to stay there for an uncertain amount of time. But we're on drugs, because instead of feeling the hard, rocky concrete floor we feel like we're floating on clouds and all we see is pretty, colorful flowers all around us. Sooner or later, the harsh reality will splatter poop in our faces and we wake up from our high to see the obesity of our fear. Our paralysis is rooted not only in the attachment of our comfort, but also our comfort in our fear of potential, consequence; anything. But life goes on. The earth will still spin and the sun will continue to rise and fall. With each day, we find ourselves exactly where we were ten years ago. Yet, with each day, we find every opportunity and any reason to get up and get going; to go through the motions at the very least. But how can we find reason to maintain, to keep going, to sustain some sort of substantial object to lean on. It has to be tangible, or else we immediately collapse if it were mere concepts and ideas that we lean on; we're that shallow. We paint the very picture of what we'd like to see and hear and taste and touch, and we do find it. But we are, at the same time, very aware of the coming disappointment. We try to find that greater force that could potentially push us along outside that chalk-drawn box in the middle of a parking lot, but we know that picture we've painted is too detailed; it's too realistic. So we look at those of us who come in and out of their own boxes, and they are dropping like flies. We go from here to there and everywhere, and find ourselves used up and stretched out. We thrive on the doings, and we're addicted to the yearning, till one day we realize the birds have eaten all the bread crumbs; we can't find our way back home. Somewhere along this melodramatic, depressing diorama we've constructed, we know that a value of a day is far more complex than simply shoving food down our throats, getting some shut-eye, pulling attention out of people, making a name for yourself. The value of a day has far more dimension than we can fully grasp, because we can't see the connection. We can't see the subtle affects, and the invisible marks we leave behind, wherever we go, whether we intended it or not. The value itself does not really come from the actual things we do and say, but from what we make of it. A lot of times, the most simple things are the most profound, not necessarily because it was deliberately woven in, but because we choose to see it through a different pair of eyes. Often times we find our feet stuck in the thickest mud, but we somehow manage to keep moving only because we have our hands to help us. Even when we are plastered in, addicted to a standard or a feeling or a substance or even a person, there's always a little glitch in the matrix. We can lift up our feet even though we're crippled because there's something above and around us that cannot be ignored. Though we're totally alone in that parking lot, we have a sense of presence that resounds in the deepest part of who we are. We cannot ignore it, and we cannot get rid of it because this presence tugs at the purpose of our existence. We find that without God, nothing makes sense.

A Wise Old Man Once Said...

When one has nothing to do, thoughts keep running, and little experiences can stick, especially while standing around to usher people for a football game.
So here I was waiting for people to ask me where their seats were while getting rained on a little bit. I noticed that 80% of the crowd consisted of senior citizens, which I thought was interesting. It made me think about what I would actually be doing when I reach that age, and what hobbies I would have. If I end up becoming a gung-ho blank-prided, American-football loving, knitting freak, cookie-baking granny, then I would believe that I must have succumbed to The Stereotype, and perhaps evolved as a result of marrying a southern white dude. It somehow led me to think, I would rather suffer in poverty for a while and have built character than live out the American dream, progressing prosperity to secure my comfort. Not if but when I am old and I am able to enjoy any event with my best friend, whom I also call husband, then I would have secured something a lot more valuable than standards or accomplishments. I thought perhaps, if I am able to do what I love and recognize God at the same time, I would have achieved a great more than the measurable and tangible products of knowledge or skill. Easier said than done.
In any case, as I was wrapped up in these thought processes, I turn around and see a little old man coming down the stairs towards me. He takes one step at a time, meaning, he waits for both of his feet to be on the stair to step down to the next one; kiddie style. Leaning on a cane, wearing a hunched back and a kind, warm smile, he asks me, "Are you a student here?"
I reply, "Yeah, I am," with a rather sheepish and hesitant smile. Standing right next to me, he's a lot taller than I had expected.
"What year are you?" he asks.
I say, "I'm a junior," all the while worried at where this spontaneous conversation was leading to.
"What's your major?" the old grandpa asks.
"Creative writing," I reply with a raised intonation at the end, as if I was asking a question.
"What was that?" he asks, and leans his ear closer to me.
I say, "My major is creative writing," this time with a little more assurance.
He says with the most welcoming and heartfelt smile a person could give, "Ohhh. You have a gluttony for punishment."
I laugh, without knowing why, and look down at my shoes.
He walks away.

Despite

A reprimanding gesture to disguise
What solitude of nested worries tied
Behind the sails of ships, access denied
By cruel embargo, issued by a cry
Sung from the piths of onions to be shied
Away from pealing lies, projected sighs.
I am awakened by this dream, to be
Aware of how it mirrors back at me
Yet knowing refuge in the One who sees
And hears the whispers of the limpid trees
So rooted in the cargo of my glee,
The One who is the secret, treasured key
To opening this stoic cave of mine,
And carving Love's expanding, valued time.